


Scattered, Smothered, and Covered

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Diners, Crack, Hand Jobs, Hash Browns, M/M, Tornados, Waffle House, swamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-18 22:51:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4723286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tourists Mike Stamford and John Watson literally blow into a Southern town where the only place not ravaged by tornados is a diner; behind the counter is a cook who deduces how customers like their hash browns before they order.</p><p>Waffle House AU + Sequel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FrankyOh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrankyOh/gifts).



“We are strangers in a strange land, Mike.” John squinted at the sky. “One day we’re baking like lobsters with Mickey Mouse and then next day, we’ve got _this_. It’s weird. Definitely not London grey.”

“John, the guidebook says…”

“Who reads guidebooks anymore?!”

“Did we pass the state line back there? It seemed like we passed two.”

“Or paper maps?!”

“The GPS signal is out.”

“Really?”

“Mobile, too.”

“Huh. You peckish?”

“Yeah.”

He frowned. “Maybe we should stop. This sky.”

“How about that exit? 221A?”

“Another Cracker Barrel.” They looked at each other. Then John said, “On second thought, maybe we should just push on. The wind should die down, right?”

_Woo-woo-woo!_

“What is that?”

“I don’t know.”

_BEEP! BEEP!_

“Thought your mobile wasn’t working.”

“Emergency alert. Tornado warning.”

“Tornado?”

“THERE! THERE! TORNADO! JOHN! TURN! TURN!”

“HOLY FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

* * *

_Woo-woo-woo!_

“That was…”

“Yeah.” Stamford patted his forehead with a paper napkin. “A tornado.”

“Where. Are. We?”

“Florida? Georgia? Alabama? I don’t know.” Stamford crumpled the map and threw it in the back seat. “I think that was a petrol station.” One building was in splinters; another had roof and walls peeled back in curls.  

“Not anymore,” said John grimly. “Looks like there ought to be zombies popping up somewhere.”

“There!” Stamford pointed to the yellow and black awning. “That place is open.”

John turned the wheel sharply; the car swerved across three lanes.

As they bumped into the parking lot, Stamford said, “Next time, John, I drive.”

After seventeen attempts, John wedged the tiny hybrid between two hulking trucks.

“I’m a very good driver!” he insisted as he squeezed out of the driver’s seat.

* * *

_Woo-woo-woo!_

A string of bells jangled, and a dozen sets of eyes were on them. John swore under his breath.

“John,” said Stamford softly, “just as a precaution, with this many guns in the room—and yours an ocean away—let’s give smart arse a wide berth.”

They nodded and smiled and inched their way through the packed diner; it seemed every chair, booth, stool, and grimy square of parquet was occupied.

_Woo-woo-wo—!_

When the noise stopped, the room filled with groans and coughs and snorts. Two waitresses zipped through the room, dropping squares of paper beside plates. A loud voice said,

“ALL RIGHT, BOYS, MOTHER NATURE’S OFF THE RAG! LET’S GO CLEAN UP!”

Men were standing up and putting on jackets and dropping money on tables and adjusting and re-adjusting their baseball caps. Two vacated their seats at the counter, and John and Stamford quickly took their places, side-stepping the slow exodus toward the exit.

A waitress scooped up the dirty plates on the counter. A bearded man came up behind her and squeezed her about the shoulders. “Say it, say it,” he urged.

The waitress scowled. “Get your wife to say, ‘Kiss my grits!’ asshole!” She slapped two plastic menus on the counter in front of John and Mike. “Be with you in a minute.”

John studied the pictures. He scratched his head and turned to Mike, “Uh, how about…”

From behind the counter, a floppy-haired man in an apron appeared and pointed his spatula at John. “ _You_ will have them scattered, covered, and smothered. And _you_ ,” he pointed at Mike, “will have them scattered, smothered, diced, and capped.”

The waitress, still scowling, pushed the man with the spatula aside. “Ignore the freak. He thinks he knows everything. Order what you want.”

“I do know everything, Sally.”

John smiled and said, “You sound like home. What’s a toff like you doing in a place like this?”

“Came here with a friend, and when I say ‘friend’ I mean,” his voice faded as a group of men passed behind John and Mike, “ _Friend_. Things went bad. Spectacularly bad. My brother cut me off so I’m working here until I have enough money to get back to London and re-start my life. The manager owes me a favor. Her husband was just sentenced to death. I was able to help out.”

“You stopped her husband from being executed?” asked John with a surprised laugh.

“Oh no, I ensured it.” The man turned and called out, “Mrs. Hudson! Two of our countrymen at the counter!” Then he pointed to a picture on John’s menu, “You will have this. It’s the closest thing we have to an English fry-up.”

An older lady pushed through the swinging door behind the counter. “Welcome, gentleman! Tea?”

“Uh,” Stamford spoke hesitatingly. “When you say ‘tea’ do you mean…?”

“A proper cuppa. Not iced tea.” She shivered in disgust. “From my own pot in the back.”

John and Stamford looked at each other and smiled. They nodded eagerly.

“Coming right up!” she said cheerily.

The waitress tapped a pen against a pad and huffed, “Come on, fellas. As you can see, we’re kind of busy. What’ll it be?”

“I just told you, Sally—“ said the man, waving his spatula.

“You don’t know anything about them!”

He looked down, as if studying something below the counter, and then nodded. When he looked up, his eyes bore into the waitress with a cold, hard gaze.

“I know that they are two British gentlemen on holiday, that is, in your vernacular, vacation, not lovers, but friends, traveling from Orlando to New Orleans. One is a well-regarded lecturer at a teaching hospital in London and has recently had a nasty divorce; the other is returned from...” He looked at John. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John looked at Stamford and then back. “Uh, Afghanistan.”

“Right. That’s enough to be going on, don’t you think, Sally?”

She rolled her eyes and stormed off. “I’m done listening to this shit! You take their order, Molly!” she called to the second waitress, who was on the other side of the diner, dropping dirty plates into a large bin.

John stared, mouth open. “That was amazing!”

“Do you think so?” asked the man.

“Of course, it was. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

The man’s voice fell to an angry drawl, “Fuck you, Pretty Boy!”

John’s eyebrows rose. “Bit rude. But you are sort of, well, um, that is to say,” he looked at Stamford and then looked down at the menu, “never mind. So scattered, smothered, and…”

“People here are either a bit rude or exceedingly polite or, vexingly, sometimes both, at the same time.”

“Can you do that with anyone?” asked Mike.

“I observe. Everyone.”

“Uh, okay, how about him?” Mike pointed to a customer in the corner.

“Let’s see.” The man came around the counter. After a few seconds, he flew back to his original spot in front of Mike and John. Then he said triumphantly, “That man has the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet porn addict, and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition! He is not, unfortunately, the criminal mastermind that he thinks he is.”

The man in the corner pointed angrily and growled, “Hey, fuck you, Pretty Boy!”

John laughed. “Well done,” he said. “So, Mr. Proper Genius, can you tell us where we are, exactly?”

There was a dark line on the counter running between John and Mike. The man tapped Mike’s side with his spatula. “You are in Florida. You,” he tapped John’s side, “are in Alabama, and the gents,” he pointed down the hall toward the neon sign, “is in Georgia. This auspicious locale straddles three territories, by which I mean, states.” From below the counter he produced a cell phone and flashed it at John and Mike. On the screen was a map, and he tapped, zooming to a single dot.

“Excuse me,” said Mike. “I need to go to Georgia.”

“Hey,” said John, looking at the phone. “How’d you get a signal here?”

The man shrugged. “I pickpocket the sheriff when he’s annoying.”

Just then, there was a jangle of the front door and a shout. “SHERLOCK! Give it back, now!”

“So that’s your name?” asked John. “Sherlock?”

“Yes.” He huffed. “The name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is the Waffle House of exit 221B, Bakerton. Good morning!”

He tossed the phone at the grey-haired man approaching the counter, winked at John, and disappeared through the swinging door.

* * *

The older lady re-appeared with two steaming mugs in hand. She set them on the counter in front of John.

“Is he always like that?” asked John.

“Yes and no. Yes, he’s always like that, but no, he’s actually _more_ himself because he hasn’t slept in days! I keep telling him to take a break, but he’s been at the grill for nineteen hours!”

“Wow.”

She nodded. “We’ve had tornados for three days. The town’s in such a mess, and this is the only business still open. We’re feeding practically the entire population of Bakerton, plus everyone from outside that’s come to help.”

The waitress came by, grumbling, “Every no-tipping redneck with a chainsaw in the tri-county area is here.”

“Sally.”

“It’s true, Mrs. Hudson.” She looked at John and snapped. “Are you ever going to order?!”

“Sally! That’s enough!” admonished Mrs. Hudson.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll have, uh, whatever Sherlock recommends.”

“And so will I,” said Mike, returning.

The waitress rolled her eyes and snatched the menus from them. Then with a heavy bin of plates hoisted on her hip, she pushed through the swinging door, yelling, “Two freak specials!”

Soon John and Mike were surrounded by plates of food: eggs and bacon and toast and tomatoes and in the middle of it all, were two golden brown piles of crinkly strands.

“This is good,” said Mike, chewing.

John hummed in agreement. “So these, uh, hash browns…are…”

“Scattered on the grill, smothered with onions, and covered with cheese,” said Sherlock, pushing through the door. “His are also diced with tomatoes and capped with mushrooms.”

John nodded. “S’good. So the suspense is killing us, how did you know all that? About us?”

“I didn’t know, I saw,” he said to John. “Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military. You’ve both got very recent sunburns, but you’ve also got an older suntan on your face, hands, and neck, but not above the wrists. So, in the military, and abroad before this holiday, but not sunbathing, that suggests Afghanistan or Iraq.”

He turned to Mike. “Your clothes also tell me a great deal.”

“My clothes?”

“Caduceus pin on your jacket says doctor. That shirt is definitely a gift from a child. In one pocket, there’s a Bert Bott’s Every Flavour Bean wrapper, which says you went to Harry Potter World in Orlando, but in the other pocket,” he turned his head awkwardly, “there’s an index card of notes, probably a speech. So, taking a family holiday in Orlando, with a friend instead of your family? The divorce was probably recent, going by the tan line on your fourth finger, and nasty.”

Mike nodded and smiled ruefully. “Go on.”

“The make of the car and the license plate say rental, one-way. You’re headed west. And there just happens to be a meeting of the International Association of Medical Educators in New Orleans this weekend and a Doctor Michael Stamford of Barts is receiving an award for excellence in teaching. I had to google the last bit, but that’s not cheating!”

“That’s fantastic!” exclaimed John.

Sherlock beamed.

“I’m John Watson, by the way,” John reached out his hand and shook Sherlock’s. “A doctor, too.”

“Army _doctor_!” said Sherlock testily. “There’s always something!”

Mrs. Hudson appeared. “Sherlock, while things are a little slow, you should take a break.” He shook his head like a stubborn child.

The second waitress slipped behind counter. “Sherlock, would you like to have coffee?” she asked nervously.

“Black, two sugars. I’ll be at the juke box.” He flew to the cash register and hit buttons until the drawer popped out. Then he grabbed a couple of coins and crossed the room.

“Any requests? No ‘God Save the Queen,’ I’m afraid,” he said.

John got up and followed. Tapping the glass, he said, “Uh, how about ‘Welcome to the Waffle House’? Seems appropriate.”

Sherlock dropped the coins in the machine.

“Uh,” John whispered as the song started, “How did you know that he and I weren’t lovers?”

Sherlock smirked. “I didn’t know, I hoped.”

John stared; the waitress butted between them, cup in hand.

“Sherlock, here’s your coffee.”

“Ah, thank you, Molly. You took off your hairnet?”

“Ah yeah, I thought maybe…” She smoothed a hand over her hair.

“A bit unhygienic, but, I’m not the health inspector, am I?” He smiled. Her face fell, and she scurried away.

John retreated to the counter. Sherlock remained at the juke box, sipping the coffee as John and Mike finished eating.

Finally, John threw his napkin on the counter and said, “That was excellent, but if I may say so, you’re wasted as a cook.”

Sherlock smiled and walked back towards them.

“Can you just read people or are you smart about, say, other things?” asked John.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, cards,” John stammered.

Sherlock nodded. John looked at Mike. “What does your guidebook say about New Orleans?”

Mike grinned. “There’s a casino.”

“Think you can win enough to buy a ticket home?” asked John. “I’m looking for a flatmate.”

Sherlock's eyes lit. “Mrs. Hudson owns property in central London. Together we might be able to afford a flat there. The sheriff says he has a cousin who’s a detective for Scotland Yard. Maybe I could consult with them.”

“Crime-solving? The police don’t consult amateurs!”

Sherlock smiled. “I won’t be an amateur.”

John returned the smile. “You might need an assistant.”

Sherlock and John locked eyes for a long moment.

“One condition,” said Mike, holding out his hand. “I drive.”

John dropped the keys in his palm. Sherlock ripped off his apron and yelled,

“Mrs. Hudson! I’m taking my 15 minute!” 


	2. Fishin' in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Waffle House, Sherlock & John end up in the bayou. 
> 
> Originally posted as a stand-alone fic. It wasn't getting much love, so I'm tucking it here where it belongs.

“I can’t believe it, Sherlock”

“You’ve said that, John, repeatedly.”

“Well it bears repeating. I cannot believe that I am in a snake-infested, alligator-infested, mosquito-infested swamp at night with a man I met less than twenty-four hours ago!”

“I said, ‘Dangerous,’ and here you are.” A break in the dense tree cover allowed moonlight to outline Sherlock’s arm and pointing finger. “That way, John.”

“Stamford and I literally blow into some sleepy town…”

“Row left, John.”

“…on our way to a medical conference in New Orleans…”

“Left!”

“…have some hashed browned potatoes…”

“Your other left!”

“…and my world is turned upside down.”

“And me, John? I was stuck in a hell of my own and my petty brother’s creations, chained like Sisyphus and Tantalus between a grill and a deep fryer in the middle of Cracker Barrel nowhere, and, lo and behold, Prince Charming gallops up in a rental car with out-of-state plates!”

“Prince Charming, eh?”

“Row right.”

“And you solved this whole mystery while Stamford and I were checking in at the hotel? Extraordinary.”

“We haven’t solved it yet, John.”

“We?”

“I was enjoying my Sazerac, waiting to accompany you and Stamford to the casino when a programme with the sensational title ‘The Swamp Ate my Bride’ commenced on the television above the bar. It purported to be ‘a true tale’ though I had my doubts until I saw the photo of the bride. On very, very rare occasions, John, the universe is lazy. The dress, I recognised it.”

“Mrs. Hudson.”

“It’s a long story, but she had two made. Both ended up in a consignment shop in Tallahassee after her husband’s execution. I helped the Bakerton police find the man who murdered the woman who bought the one of the dresses.”

“You think he’s responsible for this one, too.”

“Possibly. Dangerous to theorise before the facts. First, we have to find her. If even a few fibres of the dress have not decomposed, then the police can make a match to the other case. And yes, to answer your earlier question, ‘we.’ You are essential. Were it not for your cool head and easy charm and penchant for gambling on anything—even the square of a board upon which a chicken will defecate—we would not have overheard the location of our bride.”

“Lots of what I believe they call ‘local colour’ at that rural drinking establishment. And those blokes were exceedingly loose-lipped. Probably because they were too busy ogling yours.”

“And your arse. The accent doesn’t hurt, either.”

“No, it doesn’t. And I did quite well at that chicken-shitting game, didn’t I? Enough to buy this canoe from a bloke in the carpark. Must remember to do a round of the church fetes when we get home.”

“We?” asked Sherlock with a smirk.

“Yes, ‘we.’ I’m not leaving without you. Not this swamp. Not this country.”

Sherlock smiled, then his eyes widened. “There! Do you see it? Outhouse is the colloquial term. The moon symbol dates from when America was still under British rule. It originally referred to just the female—“

“Oh, God, he put her in a privy!”

“Think about the engineering, John. What does it mean?”

“Means this water is actually full of rotting shit. Smells like it.”

“It’s only made to look like an outhouse. It’s actually a large coffin.”

“FUCK!”

“Keep your voice down, John.”

“Why? Who can hear me over the locusts?”

“Not locusts, crickets.”

“How can that roar possibly be crickets?”

“Shhh.”

“You ‘shhh.’”

“You’ll wake the alligator.”

“What alligator?”

“The one sleeping over there.”

“Oh God.”

“Steady on, soldier.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

“You’re extraordinary, John.”

John licked his lips and smiled. “I do all right sometimes.”

“I don’t think ‘nerves of steel’ quite covers rowing past a sleeping alligator to aide in the collection of fibre samples from a decomposing corpse in a swamp coffin then rowing back past said slumbering reptile and another two kilometres of lurking dangers in the middle of the night.”

John brushed his hand across Sherlock’s cheek, then he nodded at the light shining through the trees. “I believe that’s what they call a lazy yellow moon. It’s pretty.”

“You’ll soon discover that astronomy is one of my limitations, John.”

“Oh, you have one, do you?” teased John. He kissed the tip of Sherlock’s nose.

“But that doesn’t mean that I can’t appreciate it. Yes, it is beautiful.”

“I think I’m beginning to appreciate this place. Even the crickets are growing on me. Car’s over there, yeah?” John glanced toward a clearing beyond the water’s edge.

Sherlock hummed. “I’ve texted Lestrade. He’s on his way.”

“Sherriff Lestrade of Bakerton?”

“No, his cousin who works for the Louisiana Highway Patrol.”

“Didn’t you say there was one back in London, too?”

“Yes, they are quite the law-enforcement-minded Diaspora. Good news for us that being open to unconventional forms of outside assistance seems to run in the family.”

“Well, hooray for that. Speaking of unconventional forms of outside assistance, your hand is nice.”

“Your cock is nicer. How’s this?”

John unfastened his trousers in response to a crinkling noise. “Fuck,” he sighed as Sherlock’s slicked fingers curled around his shaft. Then he chuckled. “You always carry packets of lube around? Wait, don’t answer that.”

“Until I met you, rarely. But New Orleans is an accommodating place when it comes to sexual accoutrement. That ‘rural drinking establishment,’ as you called it, was also. And quite frankly, John, you inspire one to be prepared in this area.”

“Do I now? Beautiful moon,” John mumbled. His eyes were fixed on the glow above, his body reveling in the expert touch that was stoking his lust. He rolled slightly toward Sherlock, and the floor beneath them wobbled. He clutched Sherlock’s arm, and Sherlock stopped his ministrations.

“You inspire full-bodied worship, you gorgeous madman,” said John. “But seeing as how we’re still in a canoe in a snake-infested, alligator-infested, mosquito-infested swamp, you’ll have to settle for a hand job and the promise of a proper fucking tomorrow after I attend Stamford’s presentation and take a very long nap.”

Sherlock pressed a packet of lube into John’s hand. “Deal.”

In a few seconds, John’s hand was wrapped around Sherlock’s prick. “Show me how you like it, you beast. Like that? Like that long, lean cock stroked fast and hard? Christ, there’s a bend to the left, isn’t there?”

“John.” Sherlock’s body jerked.

“Easy, love, or we’re going to be some alligator’s midnight snack.”

Sherlock jerked again. John released Sherlock’s cock and threw an arm over his side, holding him tight until the canoe stilled.

Sherlock whispered in John’s ear, his voice low and strained to pleading, “Nobody calls me that, ever, and means it. Tell me this isn’t a dream. Tell me that I’m not going to wake up in some…”

“Shhh. I’ve got you, love. I’m here.” He began stroking Sherlock’s cock anew, letting his hand move in time with his words. “You’re brilliant. You’re gorgeous. You’re like no one I’ve ever met or ever going to meet. You drive me crazy, the good way and the bad way. And I’m never going to get tired of you. If this is how we start, I can’t even imagine what happens next.”

“John.”

“Come for me, love.”

Sherlock bit his lip and came with a stifled cry.

 

“Yours is thick, fat,” slurred Sherlock as his fingers explored John’s prick.

“And a bit short, like the rest of me.” said John with a half-smile.

“Bit perfect. Would you be amenable to…?” Sherlock reached back and dragged John’s hand to his arse, pressing John’s middle finger in his clef atop his trousers.

“Fucking that arse? Yeah, yeah. That’s my gig.”

“Been a while.”

“Oh, I’ll take my time, don’t you worry.”

“I’m not worried. I’m also very much looking forward to sucking a proper cock.”

“Locals don’t do it for you?”

“I doubt anyone is going to ‘do it for me’” replied Sherlock stiffly, resuming his pumping of John’s shaft, “quite the way that you do.”

“I’m getting that feeling, too. Oh Christ, Sherlock. That hand. That gorgeous mouth.” John’s head hit the bottom of the canoe with a thud.

“This mouth is going to be wrapped around this cock,” said Sherlock, twisting his hand over the head and squeezing it gently, “swallowing it, sucking it, milking it dry. Quite possibly before sunrise.”

“Sweet Jesus.”

“Kiss me, John.”

John did. He lurched forward and kissed Sherlock hard and long, trying frantically to communicate the jumble of emotions that gripped him—love and lust and relief and gratitude and awe—with tender lips and caressing tongue.

All the while, his desire was building. He wanted to wallow in the pleasure and the surreal nature of their surroundings longer, but his control finally snapped when Sherlock urged,

“Let go, John. Let me see my soldier come undone.”

John kept his eyes on the lazy yellow moon, but his lips formed Sherlock’s name as he came.

 

“I hear them.”

“Yeah, I guess we should get this thing ashore. Hey, Sherlock, this reminds me of a joke. Want to hear it?”

“No.”

“How are we—or better to say, how were we a few minutes ago—like American beer?”

“John.”

“Two fucking close to water! Ha!”

**Author's Note:**

> The Waffle House is a chain of diners, mostly in the southeastern United States, known for maintaining operations during natural disasters. Cracker Barrel is also a chain of restaurants typically found off American highways. 'Kiss my grits' is a catchphrase of a diner waitress on a US TV show called Alice from the late 70's and early '80s. Bakerton doesn't really exist; if it did, it would be in the middle of the Chattahoochee River.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
